Reality Intrudes
by ack1308
Summary: What if Worm was just a Matrix simulation, and an operative came calling ... ?
1. Chapter 1

**Reality Intrudes [Worm/Matrix AU]**

* * *

Disclaimers:

 _1) This story is a crossover between the Wormverse and the Matrix. I own neither property._

 _2) I will follow Worm canon as closely as I can. If I find something that canon does not cover, I will make stuff up. If canon then refutes me, I will revise. Do not bother me with fanon; corrections require citations._

 _2a) This story is set about twenty years after the Matrix movies. The Mainframe has gone down, but the Matrix is still up. Many sub-systems are still maintaining individual pod-farms, and most of humanity is still dreaming in their pods._

 _3) I welcome criticism of my works, but if you tell me that something is wrong, I also expect an explanation of what is wrong, and a suggestion of how to fix it. Note that I do not promise to follow any given suggestion._

* * *

Part One: Mission Prep

* * *

I'm half-asleep in my bunk when the call comes over the scratchy PA system. _"Morrigan to the Captain's cabin. Morrigan to the Captain's cabin."_ Yawning, I stretch a little. Sure, I heard the call, but waking up properly takes time. I'm not a morning person, never have been. Probably comes from all that late-night sneaking around in back alleys. In the Matrix, of course. Humanity hasn't rebuilt enough to _have_ back alleys in the real world yet.

Getting off the bunk, I rub my eyes and stretch again. Looking down at myself, I wonder if it's worth putting on pants to go see the Old Lady. On balance, I decide that it's probably a good idea. So I climb into a pair of imitation blue-jeans I picked up on my last leave rotation, cover my sleeveless top with a t-shirt, and pull on a coat over that. Tugging on my boots takes another few seconds, then I run a comb through my brush-cut and head out of my cabin.

The first person I see on my walk to the Captain's cabin is Loki. Smarmy motherfucker thinks he's all that, too. "Hey, Morrigan," he mouths off. "Figure the Captain finally got sick of your handle and decided to rename you? I figure 'More or less' should about—urk!"

I hold the straight-arm pose, with a knuckle on either side of his Adam's apple, until he starts to turn an interesting shade of purple. When I pull back my arm, he slides down the wall and collapses to his knees, coughing and choking, but he doesn't try to retaliate. Which is smart of him, and proves that he can learn. Eventually.

Turning my back, I walk on. All too soon, I end up at Captain Hornblower's cabin. I have no fucking idea where that name comes from. It's not like she's got a trumpet on the wall or something. Just a picture of an old-timey sailing ship. I stick my head in the door and nod to her. "Captain."

"Morrigan." She doesn't look up. "Come on in. Close the door. Take a seat." Her fingers rattle on the keys of her computer as she speaks, which means she's better at multi-tasking than me. She's also given me a direct order, so I drag out a chair and drop my ass in it. For a bit, I watch as she keeps typing.

I have no idea if she's filling out forms, writing her biography or describing the look on my face (bored. Bored, bored bored. With a side order of bored.) Then I start checking out the rest of the cabin. Nope, nothing new here. Oh, wait. There's a picture of some guy in a blue uniform with gold buttons and decoration and stuff. He looks bored, too.

Captain Hornblower stops typing and looks up at me. "Morrigan. Are you familiar with the population conundrum?" Her tone says that she doesn't expect me to be, and that she'll probably have to fill me in on what she's talking about.

And the bastard of it all, it's true. "Uh, no, Captain. What's that?" I know that we're gonna have to get the human population up if we want to have a chance at surviving the next century, but that's hardly a fucking _conundrum._

Her lips twitch for a moment, and I'm certain she just won a bet with herself. "It goes like this. When the computers took over in the beginning, all of humanity was loaded into the pods. But the problem is this; we've discovered roughly as many people in pods as there were in late 20th-century Earth. But the records we've recovered indicate that there were maybe twice as many people, possibly even more than that, on Earth at the time. So what happened to them?"

I shrug. "Machines killed 'em off? Surplus to requirements?" But even as I say it, I know how stupid that sounds. The computers needed us as living batteries. The thing about humans is, we can die at any time, for the stupidest fucking reasons. Trip over the curb, walk down the wrong alley, eat the wrong food. I mean, _fuck_ allergies, right? And if a human dies in the Matrix, he dies in the real world too. If there's anything a computer understands, it's the need to keep a backup power supply. "... no, that doesn't make sense."

The Captain smiles slightly and gives me this tiny nod, like I've just passed a test. "Precisely. So a very high-powered team of investigators started searching the hidden corners of the Matrix. And they found something. Which is why we're here."

I sit up, suddenly interested. "Why do I get the impression that 'here' isn't marked on any official map, and that we're travelling under secret orders?" Captain Hornblower, bless her leathery heart, is now my favourite person in all the world. If what I think she's leading up to is true, I'm gonna get to lead the exploration of a whole new section of the Matrix. I'm totally repenting now for making up that nickname for her (though it _was_ funny at the time).

"Because you're one of my best people." I'm actually impressed. She manages to say that with a straight face. Then, of course, she ruins it. "You're insubordinate, disrespectful and have only the vaguest idea of military discipline." I dunno about that; there was this one lieutenant I used to date who really enjoyed being strapped down and paddled. But maybe she's not talking about that sort of discipline. "However, you're resourceful, intelligent, and you think on your feet. As it stands, we can't send a team in. So you'll be on your own for the time being."

Whoops, time to back things up. "Okay, what now, Captain? I'm going in solo? I'm good, but I was hoping to have a couple grunts to back me up."

She looks like someone overdosed the lemon flavouring in her gruel. "I'd like that too, but this is a particularly bizarre situation. This corner of the Matrix was sectioned off by two separate sub-programs of the Mainframe, which sealed themselves in after setting it all up. One of the programs crashed after they kicked over the emulation, and some of the locals have literally been picking out fragments of the crashed program and incorporating it into themselves."

I have to blink at that. "When you say 'bizarre' you ain't just waving the word around for fun. Holy crap. Anything else I need to look out for?"

She nods. "Yes. Remember how the One managed to write superhuman powers like flight into his avatar? Well, the program that didn't crash is literally handing out powers like this to the locals." Her face twists in distaste. "And the worst bit? It calls itself Zion."

My fists clench at that. _Zion_ is a sacred name for all of us redpills, for obvious reasons. "Oh, it did not just go there. When I get my hands on that pile of crappily-written code—"

"You won't." She doesn't have to raise her voice to interrupt me. "It's given itself god-mode, making it able to suspend use of other reality-adjusting code at will. You don't go after it. Your mission is to go into this place, look around, and see what it looks like at ground level. Once we get a good solid recon picture, that's when we start upgrading the mission profile. Until then, you're under the radar. You don't even try to tell people the truth about the world. If you have to break cover, you pretend to be one of the enhanced individuals. Nobody will think otherwise."

"Huh." I rub an old scar on my cheek. "Okay, I'm gonna need a fairly comprehensive loadout—"

"No." For the second time in a minute, she interrupts me. "The connection we've got isn't a strong one. We can't drop a whole person through and be certain that nothing will detect the arrival. However, we _have_ been able to kludge together a modified Agent-style entry mod."

I frown. "I must be getting slow in my old age. I thought we wanted to go low profile. Me replacing one of the natives is probably gonna raise a few eyebrows."

"I said 'modified'," the Captain says a little testily. "The host won't look any different, but you'll be in the pilot's seat, with access to the host's memories. She'll be on lockdown while you're in her head. Plus, you'll have your own skills and capabilities. Also, we'll sneak in a phone so you can contact us and get pulled out for downtime."

That seems kind of reasonable, though there were a few points I thought needed raising. "Whoever I replace is gonna be pissed. And what if they're popular? It's hard to fake being who you're not if a lot of people know who you're supposed to be."

"Give us _some_ credit." The Captain's smile is thin. "We've got you a good candidate. Loner, no friends. Nobody's going to be listening to her, even if she wants to make problems over this."

Well, it's not something I've ever done before, but I'm always up for new experiences, so I nod. "Sure. We got much in the way of uploads for local conditions before I dive in?" I don't ask for stupid shit like standard urban-infiltration skills. Skillsets like that got uploaded back when I was still in my single digits for Matrix insertions.

"Not enough for an upload." She laces her fingers before her. "As far as we can tell, the Zion program played fast and loose with the geography and politics of New England when setting up the emulation. You'll be dropping into a city called Brockton Bay, into the head of a teenage girl called Taylor Hebert. She's got almost exactly the same build as you, so you won't have much trouble adjusting. Current date is January third, twenty-eleven."

As I wait for the rest of it, Captain Hornblower sits there, looking at me until the penny drops. There _is_ no 'rest of it'. That's all she's got.

"Well, shit." I raise my eyebrows. "How many of the crew know about this?" If I know that bunch of low-lives, they'll be betting on how fast I screw everything up. It's what I'd be doing. I find myself wondering if I've got time to get in on that action.

"You, me and the operator." Hornblower's gaze is direct. "This mission is as covert as it gets. If even a whisper gets out about this, we'll be overrun by a dozen different activist groups, all trying to grab lead. Which will be about ten minutes before they start shooting at each other. We need to get a good solid foothold here, which means establishing a covert presence. The more we know about this 'Earth Bet', the better off we'll be in the long run."

I nod in agreement. Having better information now would be nice, but that's the sort of shit that happens when you're a kick-ass covert operative. We're the source of better information for everyone else. "Got it, Captain. The more I can find out, the more likely we are to prevent a shooting war, yeah?"

Just for a second, I imagine that I see a look of respect in her eye. "Succinctly put, Morrigan. I've got a stack of papers here from the operations committee, detailing your operating parameters for this mission. Unfortunately, half of them completely contradict the other half. So I'm going to make an executive decision, with the certain knowledge that you'd ignore them anyway, and tell you to use your own judgement. And try not to end the world."

"Wait, that's a thing there?" For a moment, I'm startled. "Maybe that's something you should've led with, Captain."

She shrugs. "There are some really odd bits of reality-adjusting code running around loose in the system. It's not _likely,_ but it's not impossible either. So be careful about what bears you poke." As she says that, she gives me a hard look. I gaze back as innocently as I can manage. Given that we both know I make a hobby out of poking bears, it's not very convincing.

Finally, she sighs. "Well, try not to let this blow up in our faces. Even if you only screw this up a little bit, we get it taken off us, and nutjobs like Free Humanity will be all over that place like cockroaches, trying to tell all and sundry that they're not living in the real world. If they react like I think they will, a lot of people will die before we have a chance to get them out."

I can see why she's worried. In the wake of the fall of the Mainframe, we had radical groups springing up faster than you could ask 'red pill or blue?'. Some advocated dumping people from their pods as fast as they could be located, while others decided that if the computers could use them for a power supply, so could we. I'm part of the middle ground; the more people we can show the truth to, the fewer there will be of the next generation to be stuck in the Matrix. Eventually, everyone will be out, and we can shut down the networks and start learning what it really means to be human. But in the meantime, we're gonna need operatives like me, going into the various outposts of the Matrix and seeing what's in there.

I stand up from my chair. "Don't worry about it, Captain. I've never destroyed the world before." Turning, I head for the door. Behind me, I hear the Captain mumble something. "Sorry, what was that?"

"Nothing." She sounds grumpy. I hide a grin, because we both know I heard what she said. _Always a first time._ Me, I'm an optimist. The world might not blow up tomorrow, but that's no reason to live like it won't.

* * *

I'm just settling myself into the chair when the hatch opens and the operator steps through. I stare in real horror. "Oh, fuck no. Captain, not him!"

Loki gives me a toothy grin as he settles down at the console. "Whassamatter, More-grin? Finally realising that shit comes back at you sometimes?"

"Shut it, the two of you." The Captain is typing on another console, sending instructions to the bridge. "Loki, Morrigan, I get it that you can't stand each other. But you're the best I've got. Now zip your lips and work together or I swear I'll jack you both into the same ten by ten cell and leave you there."

I shoot a poisonous glare at Loki. "Fine, but if he messes with me while I'm in there, I'm gonna punch his lights out once I get out."

"Pfft," he snorts. "You don't need me to help you fuck up. You're a natural at it already." But as he talks, he's already typing. I can see the screen over his shoulder, starting the cascade of green symbols. "Okay, searching for an uplink signal now."

"No, no, I told you this was a different setup." The Captain abandons her keyboard and goes to his, where she inputs some code strings. I see the pattern on the green waterfall change subtly. "See? We've got to brute-force it through. We're taking over the Matrix headspace of a native."

"All right then," he says. "I think I got it now." As the Captain moves aside, he puts on the headset and starts watching the screen, typing commands again. "Any time you're ready."

"Good." Captain Hornblower comes over to where I'm trying to relax. "Just think of it as a standard Matrix insertion. Try not to do anything that'll get you noticed straight out of the gate."

"But even if I do, I can claim superhuman powers, right?" I look up at her. "I mean, that's a thing there."

"True," she muses. "But it might be an idea to keep that sort of thing on the down-low. Until we've got more information, of course." Seating herself beside me, she takes hold of the main jack. "Operator?"

"Green to go," he says, the tension audible in his voice. I see him poised over the keyboard, fingers at the ready.

Captain Hornblower slides the jack home. I go down the rabbit hole.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two: Being Taylor Hebert is Suffering**

 _[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]_

I'm in a tightly confined space, with a sore head and the echoes of a scream in my ears. The worst smell I've ever experienced assaults my nose. There's the taste of vomit already in my mouth. I'm up to my hips in something sludgy. Bugs are crawling all over me.

For a moment, I'm about to throw up again, but then I recall the most important, most fundamental lesson about the Matrix. _Do you think that's air you're breathing now?_ It's not, of course. Whatever I'm sensing is merely a computer simulation. With that knowledge, I force down the nausea and try to work out where I am. This does not seem to be a normal place for a teenager in New England to be, at the beginning of the school year.

 _Wait a minute. Hornblower said I could access the memories of the kid I've just taken over._ I blink in the darkness, and a green curtain of code descends over my eyesight. _Okay, rewind._ There's a brief blur, then I'm looking at a high-school locker from the outside. There's that smell again, only not so bad. I look around, to see a smirking redhead, then back to my locker. The combination goes into the lock, and I open the door. This was not a great move, as the smell really hits me about then. Also, now I can see the horrific mass. It doesn't look any better than it smells. I go to throw up, but then I'm shoved forward into the locker with some serious force. I hit my head— _so that's why it's sore—_ then I'm shoved all the way in, and the door is locked behind me. _Ah hah. Got it._ So it appears that felony-level pranks are a thing, in this iteration of human civilisation. Something to keep in mind.

I end the replay, now that I know where I am. My back is hard against a metal surface, which has to be the locker door. This is made of thin steel, less than a millimetre thick. _Works for me._ I bring up my hands and place them flat on the back of the locker, then pull back a few centimetres. _This is a simulation. I can bend reality. I can bend_ _ **steel**_ _._

Nobody ever makes the Jump on their first try when they're introduced to the Matrix, not even me. But I did make it on my second try. I'm _good_ at selectively ignoring reality. I slam my hands forward, driving my back into the locker door. With a screech of tearing metal, it rips clear off of its hinges. I fall back out of the locker, stumbling clear of the worst of the decomposing mass of … _are those_ _ **tampons**_ _? I don't care if this isn't really me, I'm gonna kick someone's ass_ _ **so**_ _hard for this._

I could keep my head down and go get cleaned up, or I could deal with this my way. It takes me another moment to dip back into the kid's memories, until I find the redhead. Then I send a silent query into the database. _Who and where?_

Green lettering spills across in front of my eyes.

 _Name: Emma Barnes_

 _Status: Ex best friend. Current bully._

 _Location: Mr Gladly's World Affairs class (home room)_

 _Chances of being involved in the locker incident: very high._

All right then. I follow up on the 'World Affairs' thing, giving me a school layout and a classroom to go to. I'm very carefully not breathing through my nose; the stink, even though I'm leaving most of it behind me, is _incredible._ Repressing my gag reflex, even knowing it's not real, is hard work. Right now, I want to scrub out my sinuses with bleach and a wire brush.

Nobody is in the hallways, which is a good thing … for them. I'm in the mood to hurt someone. Though the janitor is gonna be _so_ pissed with me; some of the stuff came out of the locker with me and is now falling off my legs. Not my school, not my problem.

I get to the right door. It's not even locked; I open it and go in. A classroom full of heads turns to look at me, along with the teacher. He's young, my height or a little shorter, and I can see straight away that he's got no idea what to do about me. That's fine; I wasn't going to try to appeal to him anyway. I fix on the redheaded girl, the one I saw in the memory file. She stares at me, her eyes widening, as I head straight for her.

Someone tries to trip me; I plant my other foot and swing my leg through theirs. It's a disproportionate application of force. There's a clatter behind me as whoever it is falls off their chair and on to the floor. By the time Emma realises she's actually in danger, I'm at her desk. Reaching out, I grab her by the ear. She's got a fancy earring that I could hook my finger through, but that's got too much chance of tearing the ear or breaking the earring. My finger and thumb close on her ear instead, and I turn and head back toward the door.

Emma follows, of course; it's either that or she loses an ear. She's got a good line in high-pitched screams, especially when I haul her out of her chair with almost the full weight of her body resting on her ear. But she gets her feet under her and comes along, batting ineffectually at my hand with both of hers. Oh, wait, she's trying to dig her nails in. That's almost adorable.

"Taylor, what are you doing?" Mr Gladly is between me and the door. "And what's that smell? What _is_ that on you?"

I pause for a moment, and call up the database. _Correlate 'Mr Gladly' and 'bullying'._ Images and clips flash before me; this Gladly clown standing by, time and again, while other girls—and sometimes boys—steal my work and harass me in other ways. Well, not _me_ me; the kid. Taylor. But even that's bad enough. While it's not exactly my job as a female Operative to stand up for the rights of all women (and girls) in the Matrix, I tend to think of it as a perk.

"Good," I say coolly. "You're paying attention at last. Go check out my locker. Bring a hazmat suit. I gotta go get cleaned up." I take a step closer; he edges away, not willing to come into close contact with me. Not that I blame him right now, but he could've stood to get his hands dirty earlier, when Taylor was being shat on from a great height.

"Mr Gladly!" Emma's voice is high-pitched, desperate. "Help! Call the principal! Don't let her take me!"

He reaches for her arm; before he can make contact, I flick one of the _things_ that's still clinging to my leg so that it arcs toward him. Convulsively, he steps back, and I drag Emma away. She's still shrieking as I look over my shoulder to see him standing indecisively at the door to the classroom. He's got his phone to his ear, but I'm not sure who he's calling. Nor do I really care.

Now to deal with the noise problem. I twist Emma's ear to get her attention, then pull her close to me. "Shut the fuck up, princess," I snap, "or I'll give you something to _really_ scream about." She stares at me, her eyes wide in a tearful face, but she does shut up. Which is good; my ears were starting to hurt.

Taylor's memory database gives me a location for a bathroom. I head on in and shove Emma at a washbasin. "Fill it," I order her. She looks at me uncomprehendingly. I point at the basin. "Fill. It," I repeat, then start to take off my jeans.

She tries to make a bolt for it then, but I've allowed for that. Even with one leg caught in the jeans, I grab her by the hair and swing her around. With one hand on the back of her neck, I smack her face into the washbasin bench. There's a crunch, and I suspect I just broke her nose. _Whoops_. Her knees give way, but I hold her up with one hand and splash water on her face with the other. She quickly comes around again, but her nose definitely looks broken and there's a bruise forming on her forehead. I'd be sympathetic, except I'm not.

"Fill the fucking basin, or I'm gonna see exactly how far I can shove your head down the goddamn toilet." My voice is flat, and I think she realises exactly how serious I am. Crying a little and sniffling through her busted nose, she gets some paper towels. One she tears up and shoves up her nose to stop the bleeding, and the other she crumples up and uses as a plug in the washbasin.

I finish taking my jeans off, and kick my shoes off at the same time. Looking at my hoodie, I take that off too, then check my shirt, which also joins the pile. "Clean that shit off," I order her.

She stares at me, standing there barefoot in my underwear, then at the pile of shit-covered clothing. "Whad habbe'd to you, Daylor?" she mumbles. "Whad're you doi'g?"

"I didn't say 'ask stupid fucking questions'," I remind her. "I said 'clean that shit off'." I cheat just a bit as I crack my knuckles; it sounds like firecrackers going off. Hurriedly, she picks up the pile of clothing, cringing back as some of the shit gets on her hands.

"Wait a minute," I say. "Jeans." Grabbing the item in question, I go through the pockets. There's a coin purse there, along with the standard-issue Matrix-diving phone. Dropping the purse on the bench, I toss the jeans back at her. "Get to it."

Hurriedly, she starts trying to scrub the shit out of the heavy cloth as I turn away. I flick the phone open, hit the button and hold it to my ear.

" _Operator."_ Loki answers immediately.

"You're an asshole," I tell him heatedly, though keeping it quiet enough that Emma can't hear me. I hope. "You picked the worst possible moment for me to go in."

" _It's the best possible moment for someone to have a personality change though, right?"_ He sounds altogether too pleased with himself. _"What's with the redhead doing your laundry?"_

"Long story," I mutter. "Any alarm bells yet?"

" _Nope, though the cops just got called,"_ he says. _"Have fun with that."_

I grimace. Cops are no fun to deal with. They're as squishy as any other bluepill, but there's so _many_ of them. After a while, it feels like kicking puppies. At least there won't be any Agents to deal with. "Can you organise an exit strategy?"

" _Well, we can pull you out,"_ he suggests.

"No, you asshole." I grit my teeth. "This kid's already had a world of shit poured on her. I pull out now, what I've just done comes back on her in spades. I need a strategy for both of us."

" _You're no fun,"_ he whines. _"Okay, fine. Walk out now, or talk to the cops about the locker. One of the two."_

Talking to the cops sounds like a bad idea. Though the locker is something I can definitely show them. I probably won't be able to prove that Emma was in on it. "Talk to the cops? Are you actually serious about that?"

" _Hey, you're a teenage girl who got locked in her locker. Pretty sure you can plead temporary insanity. Or in your case, permanent insanity."_ The asshole chuckles, and I want to punch him.

The bathroom door flies open, booming as it hits the stop, and a black girl stomps in. She's about my height, and she looks _pissed._ That look changes a little to confusion as she sees me in my underwear, but then she looks past me. "Emma," she says. "You all right?"

"I thi'k by dose id broke'd," Emma mumbles past the plugs in her nostrils. "Tha'k God you're here."

I fix on the black girl and run a facial search in Taylor's memory. Immediately, I get a dozen hits.

 _Name: Sophia Hess._

 _Status: Bully, bitch and athlete._

 _Really strong and fast. Dangerous. Aggressive._

Something strikes me, and I find myself on the floor with an ache in my solar plexus. Sophia Hess is standing over me, fists clenched. "You've just never learned—"

If she's as dangerous as all that, I need to regroup. It might be that she just hit me because I was occupied with the database search, but there's no sense in borrowing trouble. Bringing my legs up, I flip out of the way of a kick and come to my feet. Sophia's eyes widen, but she comes in at me again anyway.

I cover up, ready to defend until I've got her capabilities pegged. Her fist lashes out, this time aiming at my face. But I'm a little confused; Taylor's got her down as being fast. This is barely above average for a bluepill. I've got all the time in the world to respond. Unless it's a feint. Is it a feint? I check her posture, and I can't see the rest of the attack. For all I can see, she's committed to this.

It's embarrassing to admit, but I'm concentrating so hard on seeing the trap that I nearly let her tag me with the second punch. At the last split-second, I tilt my head to the side and let her fist slide on by. That's when I grab her arm and put her in a hold. Nothing fancy, but definitely nothing she'll be able to get out of. Leverage is fun like that.

Satisfied that she's locked down, I turn my head toward Emma. "How are you going with that?" She's staring at me and Sophia—obviously hoping that her friend will hand me my ass—but when I speak, she hastily turns back to the washbasin.

"Uh, id's slow," she says in a defensive tone. "Id does'd wa'd to cub oud." She says something more, but I'm not paying attention. Because Sophia Hess has just done the impossible; she's gotten out of my hold. She didn't brute-force her way out of it, like any other redpill would do, and she didn't slide out. But between one second and the next, she simply isn't there any more. _I have_ _ **got**_ _to find out what she did there._

I'm impressed, but not so impressed that I don't go on full guard. Which turns out to be a wise move, because the Hess girl is right back on the attack. This time, she does go with a feint; a jab at my face, followed by a solid left to the solar plexus. Of course, to me, it's basically in slow motion; give this girl a red pill and a proper martial-arts upload and she might be dangerous. As it is, I almost have to hold back a yawn.

The jab, if I let it hit, might sting a bit. I'm not inclined to give her even that much, so I casually brush it aside like a mosquito. Her face twists in triumph as she puts her weight behind the gut-punch, but it's a little premature. This is brought home to her in no uncertain terms as I pull off an unconventional move; I put my hand out and catch her fist in it.

Unconventional, yes, but effective as hell. She goggles at her fist, now trapped in my hand, as if she can't believe what's happening. The look lasts just long enough for me to step forward and lay a nice crisp head-butt on her. When I broke Emma's nose, it was by accident; with Sophia, it's deliberate. Sophia's knees go out from under, and her eyes roll back in her head. Blood is already beginning to trickle from her nostrils as she hits the tiled floor. I let go of her fist and grab the front of her top just long enough to make sure she doesn't bang her head as she goes down.

"Emma," I say, looking down at Sophia. "Leave that. Come here."

My comprehensive defeat of Sophia seems to have knocked the last of the fight out of Emma. She comes a little closer, keeping to what she probably thinks is a safe distance. I don't disabuse her of the notion. "Whad you wa'd be to do?"

I point at the jeans Sophia is wearing. They'll be a little baggy on me, but they're about the right length. As a bonus, she's got a belt as well. "Help me get her pants off." Sophia's sneakers aren't to my taste, but I do like the zip-up knee-length boots Emma's wearing. "And your boots. Plus your top." It's just as stylish—and expensive—as the rest of her outfit. I definitely won't be able to rock it like she is, but I'd prefer it over a hoodie, crap-stained or otherwise. Would it have killed Loki to outfit me with a long coat? I love those things.

For a moment, it looks like she's going to argue, but then she catches the look in my eye and shuts up. Wordlessly, she helps me strip Sophia of her jeans, then unzips her boots. I step into the pants, pulling them up to cover my butt. The belt looks like it can pull in to cover my new waistline—I don't think I've ever been this skinny—which I was kinda hoping for. "So," I say as I cinch it in as tight as it'll go. "What's with that trick she pulled? She got one of those weird abilities?"

I look up from the belt to see her staring at me, eyes wide. Lips pressed tightly together, she shakes her head almost feverishly. "I do'd doe whad you're dalki'g aboud," she says, in a tone that wouldn't convince a two-year-old.

 _In other words, "yes, but there's a taboo about it". Got it._ "Right, okay, forget I asked," I say. Holding out my hand to her, I snap my fingers. "Top."

I'm pretty sure she's attached to her blouse, or maybe she's just modest. Again, the temptation to argue must have crossed her mind, but I snap my fingers for a second time, like I'm getting impatient. Reluctantly, one button at a time, she undoes the shirt. I give her a hard look, and she hurries up quite a bit.

The boots fit quite nicely over the jeans, and the top looks pretty good in the mirror. Sophia is starting to groan and stir feebly by the time I do up the last button. There's something else … oh, right. I was holding my phone when Sophia hit me. "Where's my phone?" I ask out loud, putting my hand to my ear like I'm making a call. Emma stares at me mutinously, but I'm not talking to her.

Operators might not be able to talk to you when you're not on the line, but they can see what you're doing just fine. On cue, the phone starts ringing; somehow, it ended up in one of my shit-covered shoes. A couple of wet fingermarks on it explains how this odd thing happened. Emma backs away as I advance on her.

When I emerge from the bathroom a few moments later, I'm carrying Sophia's t-shirt and Emma's skirt. Emma's phone isn't on her, so if either of them wants to go for help, they're gonna have to do it either in underwear or in my wet crappy clothes. I dump the skirt and top in the first trash can I come to. In the meantime, I'm back on the phone. "Okay, now I do need an extraction plan. I just beat up two girls and stole their clothes."

" _Gotta say, Moggie, you know how to win friends and influence people wherever you go."_ Loki sounds like he's holding back laughter. _"The option to pull you out is still on the table."_

I shake my head. "Screw that. I need to have this girl in a more viable position when I jack out. Otherwise, fuck knows what'll happen to her while I'm on downtime." I'm taking the stairwell down as fast as I can, which basically means leaping over the rail to skip a whole flight of stairs at a time. "Where's the nearest motorbike, car or whatever I can hotwire?"

Now he actually does laugh. _"Only you would look at stealing a car as a valid way to de-escalate the situation. I'm telling you, just walk out the front door. You'll be fine."_

By now I'm low on options. So I walk up to the main doors and consider what I'm going to see when I open them. In every other op I've been on, a clusterfuck of this magnitude would've had the authorities on alert and seen the parking lot full of cop cars. There'd be flashing lights everywhere, guns pointed in my direction, and probably a helicopter or two overhead. Oh, and of course there'd be Agents. Some pockets of the Matrix still maintain them.

I'm pretty sure there aren't any Agents here—though I've been wrong before—but even without them, life's gonna get really fucking interesting for a while. I decide that even if I can't jack a police motorbike, a car should do just as well.

 _Okay, it's showtime._ I shove open the doors and go out in a roll, looking for cover against the inevitable storm of bullets. Reaching my objective behind a low concrete wall, I come up on one knee and pause. When I run the last few seconds past my mind's eye, I frown, having not registered any shots at all. Cautiously, I peer over the top of the wall.

There are no cop cars. There aren't any cops, either. In fact, if not for the fact that it's fucking January, my dive-and-roll would've been greeted with the sound of crickets. Slowly, I come to my feet and look around to see if it's some kind of elaborate ambush. An army of SWAT totally fails to leap out of non-existent cover.

I scratch my head, then start down the steps. I don't get this at all. This isn't how it works. Operatives start shit, then Agents and cops show up to shut them down. It's like I threw a party and nobody came. I'm almost insulted. I'd been looking forward to rocking one of those cop shotguns, too. The ultimate party accessory.

The sound of air brakes gets my attention. Has an Agent taken over the driver of an eighteen-wheeler with the aim of running me down? But when I look toward the road, all I see is a bus, pulling in at the bus stop. _What the hell._ Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the coin purse. I've never left the scene on a bus before, but I guess there's a first time for everything.


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three: Gathering Information

* * *

 _[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal]_

* * *

I'm pulling out Taylor's coin-purse to pay the bus driver when I notice something I should've picked up before. Sophia's belt has actual pouches on it. Two of them. And there's something in them. I don't draw attention to the fact that I've just noticed this; instead, I get out the purse.

"How far ya goin', kid?" he grunts, like he's not even surprised that someone's leaving school mid-morning. My estimate of the school system in this town, already low, starts making preparations to plumb the Marianas Trench.

Which gives me an idea of where I should go. "Uh, library?" I ask, as if I'm not sure about it. Or like I'm just throwing it out like an excuse. Get off at the library, go to the mall or whatever. Pretty sure this guy's heard it all.

"Sure thing," he says. "Three fifty." No _what are you doing out of school,_ or _does your mom know where you are._ Just _three fifty._ I shrug and dig out some coins. There's a weird-looking coin among the dimes and quarters and stuff; when I look closer, it turns out to be a dollar. This place is getting weirder all the time. I drop three dollars and two quarters into his hand, shove the purse back in my pocket, and climb on board the bus.

There's fuck-all people on there with me, but I've still got residual Agent-paranoia going on, so I go all the way to the back where I can keep an eye on them all. Once I'm there, I check out the contents of the pouches. The first one's a flip-phone, a well-worn model that looks a couple years old. And the second one's … huh. This one's a brand-new smart-phone. The case is barely scratched, even.

I sit back in my seat as the bus rumbles down the road, and examine the two different phones. Okay, this is a bit of a puzzle. But that's good, because I like solving puzzles. Okay, I like breaking shit until puzzles aren't puzzling any more, but that's almost the same thing.

Hypothesis one: only one phone belongs to her. The other one's stolen, or she's holding it for someone. Something like that.

Counter to hypothesis one: this belt belongs to her, and the pouches are purpose-built. Conclusion: both phones are hers.

Hypothesis two: one's a normal phone and one's a special phone. But what sort of special phone? I look at the worn phone, then the new one. There's no good reason I can think of for a teenager like Sophia Hess to hold on to the older one when she's got the newer one.

Fuck it. I give up trying to use deduction and brainpower to solve the mystery, and hit the wake-up button on the new phone. It wakes up, all right, but then it asks for a PIN. Which puts me back at square one. Without much hope, I try the same with the older phone. To my surprise, it wakes up just fine and opens its secrets to me.

 _The fuck? Why password one phone but not the other?_

The answer comes to me immediately, of course. Because there's nothing important on the crappy old phone. All the good stuff's on the sleek new one. That's the only logical conclusion.

Still, it doesn't stop me from looking at the old phone. No sense in not checking it out. There still might be something on there that's of interest to me. And until I can get the PIN code for the new one, it's my only option.

On the surface, the phone's pretty vanilla. Contact list includes Emma and someone called Madison, as well as numbers for a Mom, a Terry, an Alan, and a few others. Not many, which isn't really a surprise. I hadn't picked Sophia as a social butterfly. Pit bull maybe, but not a butterfly. I make a bet to myself that if I ever manage to lift Emma's phone, she'll have ten times as many contacts.

The interesting bit is when I start skimming her saved text messages. Taken one at a time, they don't say much. But put a whole bunch together and they paint a really fucking horrific picture of relentless borderline-sociopathic bullying. Sophia and her friends are starting to look like people I'd gladly throw under any bus I'd care to name. They never name Taylor specifically in these texts, but from context it's pretty damning. It looks like they've been going at her for a fucking long time, maybe years. What I don't get is why. Actually, no. What I _actually_ don't get is why she hasn't snapped and gone psycho on their asses already. I certainly fucking would've. Oh, wait, I already did. All of a sudden, my minimal regret for breaking their noses becomes care factor zero.

To distract myself, I eye the new, holy-shit, high-tech phone. My guess is that any missing parts of this puzzle are to be found on it. Trouble is, it's protected by what I suspect to be the best encryption money can buy. This doesn't mean I'm stopped, of course. It just means that I'm stopped unless I do something I really don't want to do.

Unfortunately, my options are few and far between. I'm gonna have to ask Loki for help. And I just _know_ that the asshole's gonna be so fucking smug about it. I'm beginning to regret kicking him in the nuts the last time we sparred. Well, almost.

With a sigh _,_ I pull out my own phone and flip it open, then hit the call button.

" _Operator."_ I can almost _hear_ the smug in his voice.

With a sigh, I bite the bullet. "Need the PIN code for this phone." Phones, of course, are just chunks of code in the Matrix. Digging into them for the on/off switch is child's play for a good Operator. And as insufferable as he might be, Loki's a kick-ass Operator.

" _Wow, this is low, even for you. Going through a teenager's cell-phones? How low can you go?"_ He's fucking _enjoying_ this. I visualise kicking him in the nuts, again. "Just do it, okay? You know she's one of the weird ones. I wanna see what this high-tech piece of shit is about."

" _Yeah, about that. Gotta say, I didn't expect her to tag you like that. That one's going in the greatest hits file."_ I'd _wondered_ when he was going to pull that up. Also, how long it's gonna take me to live it down.

"Fuck you. Gimme the PIN code." We both know he can't actually refuse a request, but there's nothing in the regs against being fucking irritating while he does it.

" _Okay, okay, don't get your panties in a wad. Sending the code to your phone now."_ He hangs up; a moment later, a six-digit number pops up on my phone screen. I'm actually kind of impressed; most phones go for four digits. If I'd tried to brute-force it, there would've been a million combos to try. Fuck that shit.

I enter the PIN in Sophia's phone and it lets me in. The interface is smooth and intuitive, almost anticipating my every need. Why can't we have shit like this? Anyway, I start looking through it. My first port of call, like with the other one, is Contacts. This one's got a different list of names; big surprise there. Except that these aren't names that I'd normally associate with normal people: Triumph, Aegis, Clockblocker, Gallant, Kid Win, Vista …

"The fuck?" I mutter. "What kind of names _are_ these?" Unless they're online handles or something. I blink as it occurs to me that Sophia might actually be more important than I'd thought. Maybe she's part of a hidden group that knows what the Matrix is and is working to get out or something. That's the way most people get recruited, after all. They start asking questions, the most important one being 'What is the Matrix?'

Okay, so the bullying thing is a bit on the nose, but maybe she does it to fit in or something. I begin to wonder if I've misjudged her. When she wakes up, she'll be freaking out about her missing phone. I might have to figure out some way of getting into contact with her. Having a resistance cell already in place would make my job one _fuck-_ load easier.

I scroll a little farther to see what other names are there, and run head-first into my own assumptions. Because the very next two names are more corporate than symbolic; Director Piggot and Deputy Director Renick. _What is this? A secret underground hacker group or a corporate think-tank?_

And then something occurs to me. I'm totally failing to make use of the best source of information I've got to hand. Specifically, Taylor Hebert's memories. Leaning back in my seat, I let the curtain of green slide down over my eyes as I concentrate on the names. If they're a secret underground group, Taylor won't know thing one about them, which will be a point in their favour. Of course, I'm gonna have to warn them to back the fuck off from her. Fitting in's one thing, but I'm not gonna let some teenage bitches wale on me for any fucking reason under the sun.

To my surprise, the names get a hit. But the _real_ surprise is the content of the hits. By the time I blink my eyes clear, my head's spinning a bit. Turns out that Taylor didn't know all the names, especially Piggot or Renick, but she knew Triumph and Aegis, as well as Clockblocker. I pause for a moment to reflect on exactly what sort of a mind would call themselves that, then move on.

They aren't a secret underground resistance group. They're a bunch of fucking bona-fide government-sponsored kid superheroes called the Wards, complete with costumes and powers. Which means that they've all got chunks of anomalous code grafted on to them.

My phone rings, and I answer it. "You are _never_ gonna fuckin' believe this."

" _It can wait."_ Loki's voice is brusque, even for him. _"You gotta ditch the phone. It's got a trace program in it."_

I stare at the smart-phone, holding it away from my body in case a metallic insect jumps out and burrows its way into my body. Saw a good buddy go out that way once; the fucking thing got to his brain and diced it. "You're shitting me. There's Agents involved after all?"

" _For fuck's sake, Momo. I mean an actual trace program on the actual goddamn phone. They just activated it remotely. Ditch the fuckin' thing. Now."_ Loki sounds both pissed and urgent, which convinces me.

"Okay, fine," I reply. The bus window takes a little effort to open, then I flick the phone on to a shop awning. "Ditched. Happy now?"

" _No gratitude, I see. You know I probably just saved you from getting arrested or shot or whatever."_

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." I flip the phone shut, then grin. I suspect I know Sophia Hess' dirty little secret. By now I'm pretty sure she's not in the know about the Matrix. But I'm absolutely certain that she's gonna be shitting herself _majorly_ over the loss of the phone. Of course, I'm not totally read in on all the details yet, but I have a fairly good idea where I can get access to those.

* * *

 **Winslow High**

* * *

Sergeant Joe Casteli yawns as he slows down briefly to give a passing bus right of way at the intersection. He's been pulling some late nights over Christmas and New Year, mainly because there's always _someone_ who chooses to be out and about causing trouble. Even now, two days later, he still hasn't caught up on all his sleep.

The bus rumbles past and he lets the clutch out, rolling down the road until he gets to the entrance of the Winslow parking lot. This is a place he knows all too well. A week rarely goes by without a call-out to Brockton Bay's shittiest high school. Whether it's the Empire skinheads clashing with the ABB assholes, the ABB or Empire trashing the Merchant stoners or the Merchants selling drugs to anyone with the cash, he figures more crime goes on within those four walls than half the Docks.

The rookie riding shotgun, a skinny black kid called French, looks puzzled as the car rolls past the allotted parking space for emergency vehicles. "Uh, sergeant, wasn't that …?"

Casteli chuckles. A twenty-year man, he sometimes feels like he's been on the job more than twice that time. "We never drive straight in. Sometimes the gangs put metal spikes or broken glass in that spot. So instead we eyeball it on the way past and do a lap of the parking lot, just to see what stolen cars are in here today." Taking one hand off the wheel, he points. "See that one? The red Honda? Plates look familiar. Run 'em, will ya?"

"Uh, sure thing, sergeant." French sits forward and begins to tap information into the fold-out keyboard. "Just, um … weren't we here to investigate a fight or something?" To his credit, he never pauses in his data entry.

"Technically, yeah." Casteli decides to pass on another pearl of wisdom. "Thing is, this is Winslow High. They don't go a day without a fight, not here. Even if it gets called in, by the time we get there all we can do is scrape up what's left and call an ambulance. Whatever's happened is done. Hell, half the time we can't even spare a uniform to check it out. It's always the same story, anyway. Nobody saw nothing. Not even the guy who's bleeding out on the goddamn floor."

From the look on French's face, he isn't prepared for this revelation. "But …" He pauses. "So why are we showing today?"

Casteli nods and smiles. "Good question, French. This time it got called in by the principal. Woman called Blackwell. Apparently one of her model students got assaulted by one of the weird loners. Our job's to go in there, find out what happened, and let the little shit cool his heels overnight in the precinct house." He pulls the cruiser into an empty parking space. After shutting the car down, he climbs out and stretches, swivelling his shoulders one way and then the other. Obligingly, vertebrae click in his back. _I'm getting too old for this._

French hooks his head toward the school. "Anything I should know before I go in?"

Silently, Casteli commends the kid for thinking ahead. "Treat it like a gang bust. You're gonna draw shit from the skinheads, and we'll both get it from the ABB. They'll say anything to get you riled up. Don't let it happen. Keep your hand near your gun, but for _fuck's_ sake do not draw down on anyone unless they're holding a weapon and directly threatening you or someone else."

With a serious expression on his face, French nods. "Got it." Peering up at the grimy frontage of the school, he loosens his gun in its holster. "Like the training officer told us. Some parts of the city you gotta treat like the Wild West."

Casteli snorts. "That's about as good a description as any." He tilts his head toward the car as he hits the key fob to lock it. "How'd the search turn up?"

"Stolen." French doesn't even sound surprised. He's learning fast.

"Good. We'll deal with it on the way out." Casteli leads the way up the stairs to the front doors and pushes them open. "Come on, let's get to the principal's office and see what she can tell us about what's going on." He knows the way, of course; he's been here more than once before.

French sniffs out loud, then does it again. "Uh, sergeant?"

"What is it?" Casteli could've told him that sniffing, or even breathing deeply, inside Winslow isn't the smartest thing to do. God alone knows when they last cleaned the heating system. And he's got a sneaking suspicion that there's more than a bit of unreported asbestos in the walls. It looks like that kind of place.

"Something stinks, sergeant." French's face twists into a grimace. "I mean, it really stinks. Like something's dead. Or some _one."_

Without thinking, Casteli takes a sniff himself. French's nose is decades younger than his, and probably a lot keener, but even without that advantage he can just about pick up the odour that his partner's detected. It smells even worse than the time he ended up on stakeout with Howard 'Two-Ton' Tunley, who did nothing for six hours straight but eat fish paste sandwiches and fart. He hasn't been able to stomach fish since. "Shit. What _is_ that?"

"I dunno." French moves forward, head turning from side to side as he sniffs at the air again. "I think we should check it out. If it's something rotten, then it's definitely a health hazard."

Momentarily, Casteli's tempted to overrule him and get back to the business at hand. But then he catches himself and shakes his head. French is right, after all. A smell like this has no place in a high school—well, apart from the locker room, anyway. And if he can get the school slapped with a health violation, it might make being dragged out here just a little more worthwhile.

They move through the halls, watching each others' backs. While Winslow's a high school, it's still the biggest shithole this side of whatever squat the Merchants are living in this week. Crudely sprayed Asian ideograms are overlaid by red and black racist symbolism, with the occasional double-barred green 'M' in the corner.

Casteli catches French's grimace as they pass by a full-length mural, a swastika overlaying a Confederate flag. "Don't let it get to you, kid. Thing these little shits don't understand is that both those flags got their asses kicked by black soldiers and white soldiers fighting side by side for the good old US of A." He slaps French on the shoulder. "And if they start anything, we'll just hafta show 'em a little historical re-enactment. Got it?"

French straightens his back slightly. "Got it, sergeant." He sniffs the air again, and screws his nose up. "Fuck, whatever that shit is, it's horrific."

"You're not wrong." Casteli is now trying to breathe through his mouth only. Whatever's causing the smell is directly ahead. They move up together and look around the corner.

The source of the smell is very easy to pick out now. There's lockers lining each wall of this particular corridor; all are closed and locked, except for one. That one is open; more specifically, the hinges have been busted and the door's hanging from the locker by its lock. Spilling out of the locker is a sludgy mass of _something_ that, even now, is gradually slumping toward the ground, an inch at a time. Bugs, masses of them, crawl around and over the fetid pile of decomposing … "What the fuck _is_ that?" Casteli immediately regrets speaking, because now he's going to have to inhale.

"Dunno, sergeant." French gulps slightly. Casteli hadn't ever imagined it was possible for a black person to go green, but French is a talented young man. "Someone was in there. They went that way." He puts his hand over his mouth.

Casteli wrenches his horrified gaze away from the oozing, rotting mass to follow French's pointing finger. The muck has indeed been disturbed in a way that looks like someone waded through it, and there's even a trail leading away, outlined in clear sneaker footprints. Also included in the trail are bits and pieces of stuff that's apparently come from the pile. He thinks he recognises feminine hygiene products, but a glance at French makes him certain the boy's gonna lose his breakfast in the next few minutes if they keep hanging around.

"C'mere." He grabs French's sleeve and tows him along the corridor in the direction of the footprints. Once they're out of the worst of the miasma, he stops. "Wait here a moment."

"What are you gonna do, sergeant?" French, now looking less nauseated, eyes him curiously as he pulls his phone out.

"Crime scene photos," says Casteli grimly. "And to find out what locker number that was. Ten gets you one that whoever owns it is the one that got locked in with that crap. While I'm getting the photos, you call this in. Then we're gonna track down our vic and get a statement." He bares his teeth in what might be a smile. "Congrats, kid. Looks like you just sniffed out our first real crime of the day."


	4. Chapter 4

Part Four: Revelations

* * *

 _[A/N: this chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]_

* * *

 **Morrigan**

* * *

When the bus pulls up in front of the library, I do a double-take. Not sure what I was expecting, exactly, but this sure as shit wasn't it. It's a big old building, almost fucking stately rather than being a run-down shithole like the school I just walked out of. As I get off the bus, I'm revising my opinion of the city of Brockton Bay upward a bit; there's office buildings all around and almost a feeling of prosperity in the air. That's probably an illusion though; I remember the bus rolling through some pretty crappy neighbourhoods before getting to the downtown area.

I climb the stairs and go in through the double glass doors. Inside, it's even more fucking impressive. I put my hands on my hips and look around, trying to figure out exactly how much damage an extended firefight in here would cause. What with the marble pillars and the artwork hung everywhere, I decide that the answer is 'way too fucking much'. If it wasn't for the shelves of books, I'd almost be forgiven for thinking I was in a museum, it's that goddamn fancy in here.

First thing I do is scope out the place for lines of fire and exfil points. I wander from one end of the building to the other, trying not to gawk too much. The last time I was in a place this fancy in the Matrix, I used about a quarter-ton of C-4 to blow it the fuck up. Fucking Agents, they ruin shit for everyone. And of course, I've never been anyplace this fancy _outside_ the Matrix, because that shit hasn't been rebuilt yet.

Once I've finished with the ground floor, I head upstairs. Almost immediately, I strike gold. There's a row of twenty computers, free for use. Better yet, barely any of them are occupied, because all the good boys and girls are in school, and the adults are earning their illusory electronic dollars. I keep moving, making a mental note of which way I'd have to run if some asshole came through the door with overwhelming force. Sure, there aren't supposed to be Agents here, but I still don't really trust that.

It doesn't take me too long to get the layout of the place down, and I head back to the computers. Going online in the Matrix is kind of recursive; you _know_ you're in a computer simulation, and the computer you're using is just an emulation in that simulation. If you know what you're doing, you can coax the system to do things it was never designed to do. This is why nearly all Operatives show up as hackers in the Matrix; even before we get the red pill, we're used to warping reality in a myriad of small ways. Of course, once we _get_ the red pill, we can learn to do a whole lot more, but it's a solid start.

I pick the computer station right at one end from sheer reflex. Less chance of someone looking over my shoulder and scoping out what I'm doing. At the same time, I half-turn my chair so I've got the wall partially covering my back. I don't _know_ that anyone's coming after me, but paranoia is a finely developed survival trait with any Operative. Until I've proven otherwise, I'm not gonna assume that there isn't someone already gunning for me. And even if I _do_ prove it, I'm still not gonna trust it, because that shit can change.

The computer starts up just a little sluggishly, but that's par for the course. I'm tempted to pull a few hacker moves and go into the programming of this thing to speed it up, but I don't want to draw any more attention than I already am. _Don't pay attention to me, I'm just a curious teenager looking up some stuff._ So I endure the lag and type in my queries.

For "Wards", I get a page of really solid hits. Turns out that Taylor's memories were reasonably accurate; there really is a bunch of government-sponsored kid superheroes in town. Once I figure out how to narrow it down to Brockton Bay, I get a list of names and (masked) faces to go on with. In fact, each of them has a whole portfolio of pictures; turns out that having powers makes you a celebrity. Go figure.

The list is almost identical to the one I read off of Sophia's phone before I had to ditch it. Triumph is the leader, with a gladiator-style costume topped by a lion-head mask/helmet thing. The description says that he can shout loudly enough to break concrete. I guess that's what grafting weird-ass code culled from a fragment of the Mainframe on to your avatar will do. Must make ordering in a restaurant a bit of a tricky situation.

I skim through the rest of the names: Aegis, Clockblocker, Gallant, Kid Win, Shadow Stalker, Vista …

Wait one goddamn moment. Back that shit up.

I recognise most of those names, especially Clockblocker. If he picked that name for himself, I have to give him kudos. Though I'm not really sure what it's in aid of. I quickly check, and find out that he can freeze shit in time. That's actually pretty damn cool, but I still think that whoever was supposed to be checking names fell down on the job.

In any case, I'm not after him. There's one name on the list that I didn't see earlier; Shadow Stalker.

She—it's a teenage girl, looking pretty fit—doesn't have many pics in the profile, like she hasn't been with them for long. But I don't need many pictures to verify my earlier suspicion. Shadow Stalker wears a costume and mask combo that does a good job of covering her hair and skin colour, but she can't change her height and body type, or even the way she stands. That's Sophia Hess, all the fucking way.

I give the images a good long look, so I'll know her when I see her out and about. There's a full-face mask and a hooded cloak, with what looks like body armour on under the cloak. More of interest are the hand-held crossbows she apparently uses as her weapons of choice. Even though they aren't full-sized, they look like they could do some damage. With Sophia's temper, I'm left wondering how many assholes she's killed already.

Looking into her background, I get more of an idea of what she's like. Turns out she used to be a vigilante, but then she volunteered to join the Wards. Knowing what she's like face to face and having skimming through her text conversations with Emma, I get the strong impression she didn't so much volunteer as get shanghaied. Whatever she did to get this done to her, it must've been pretty bad. I know this because from the description she's got a classic "you can't touch me" cheat code grafted on to her. Which nails it down for me; there's no other way she could've gotten out of that hold I had her in. But it also means she could slide away any time she felt like it, unless they were keeping pretty close tabs on her.

Some other hyperlinks are demanding my attention, so I click on them. I start to learn about the Protectorate, which seems to be the adult version of the Wards. I'm hoping that I don't end up clashing with these guys; I'm good, but their avatars have been upgraded with stuff I'll be hard pushed to match off against.

On the other hand, there's also the Parahuman Response Teams, abbreviated to 'PRT'. That's the next link I click on. I'm not sure what to think about them. On the one hand, I'm pretty sure that they're all baseline human, but on the other … well, with the identical faceless appearance of those helmets, I'm reminded of how Agents all look the same.

Clicking onward, I find myself directed on to something called the ParaHuman Online boards, PHO for short. I start reading random threads; five minutes in, I pull out my phone and flip it open. There's nobody sitting close enough to listen in, but I remind myself to keep my voice down before I press the button.

" _Operator."_ For once, Loki isn't coming across like a smug asshole. In fact, he sounds more stunned than anything.

"Yeah, you getting this?" I keep scrolling down the screen. It's a frank and open discussion of superhuman activities in Brockton Bay and across America, if by 'frank and open discussion' you mean 'terrifying references to inhuman capabilities'. In doing so, they're casually tossing around names that I'm going to have to look up if I'm to make any sense of this.

" _Fuck yes, we're getting this."_ For once, he's actually being professional. Well, kinda. _"Pretty sure we can strip out every thread you click on. Does it look like there's much more?"_

"Uh, yeah." I click on the Home button, and look at the list of options. There's a lot of them; Brockton Bay, New England, America, International, PRT, Triumvirate, S-Class Threats, Scion. "Want me to hit up local events, or go wider?"

" _Well, we're gonna want to get basically everything. This is gold, right here. If anything's gonna give us a picture of the world, it's this."_ There's a murmuring sound in the background. _"The Captain wants you to look at that sub-forum titled 'S-Class Threats'. We're not sure what it means, but it can't be good."_

Personally, I'm more interested in the one marked 'Scion', for no better reason than it's right at the end. But what the Captain wants, the Captain gets. Unless I get a better idea, of course. "Sure thing. S-Class Threats it is." I move the cursor to the link and click it. "Okay … let's see. Slaughterhouse Nine? Sounds like a bad sequel to a fairly dreary novel. Nilbog? Sounds like a bad fantasy novel. Sleeper? What's he gonna do, snore me to death? Endbringers? Wow, ominous much?"

" _Captain says to check out the Endbringer thing, whatever that is. Probably our best bet of figuring out what's got the most chance of ending the world so we can stop it."_ Loki's voice is tense; I'm not feeling too relaxed right now either.

"I'm starting to wonder exactly _how_ many ways these guys might end the world," I say, but I click the link anyway. The subforum that pops up has four options: General, Behemoth, Leviathan and Simurgh. I shrug and click 'Behemoth'.

And then my mind goes blank, because I've just seen my first Endbringer. The imagery is terrifying, and I say that as someone who's gone toe to toe with Agents. Forty-plus feet tall, dwarfing the people around it, in the air and on the ground. Throwing fire, lightning and even radiation at its opponents, tearing its way through cities like a man wading through a wheatfield. My throat goes dry and closes up altogether as I read the stats attached to the creature, how long it's been active (eighteen years) and the estimated number of casualties it's responsible for. Not thousands. Not tens of thousands. Not even hundreds of thousands. Fucking _millions._

Nausea rises in my throat. Loki's saying something in my ear, but I'm not hearing him. I don't even recognise my own voice as I say the only thing that makes sense.

" _Fuuuuck."_

* * *

 **Winslow  
A Little Earlier**

* * *

Casteli hasn't drawn his gun yet, but his hand isn't too far from it. Someone who'd shove a teenager into a locker packed with rotting crap could just be the sort of asshole who'd bring a gun or a knife to school. French isn't so green around the gills any more. He's got his head up and looking around, so there's hope for him yet. The fact that he's following Casteli's lead without argument is another point in his favour.

The trail of stinking debris, along with the slimy footprints, leads them to a classroom door, which is wide open. Voices come from within. Casteli catches French's eye and points at where the footprints also leave the classroom, heading off down the corridor. "Looks like our vic came and went," he says quietly.

"So what are we waiting for?" French asks. He sounds eager, which is kind of excusable, but Casteli knows better.

"First off, we find out what happened in there," he says. "Then we go looking for the vic. They're obviously up and able to walk. Also, probably traumatised. So we don't go running after them. And we don't go _anywhere_ alone in Winslow. So stick with me."

He moves forward and steps into the doorway, coming face to face with a familiar figure. He's met this woman before. Principal Blackwell has never really impressed him much, but she _is_ the ranking authority in Winslow. Behind her stands one of the teachers; a Mr Gladly. Gladly has managed to impress Casteli even less.

"Oh, good, you're here," Blackwell says. "I demand you arrest her at once!" Her voice is a little sharp, a little high-pitched, and would probably go through the human skull like a bandsaw after a Friday night bender.

Casteli frowns. "Good morning, Principal Blackwell," he says in an attempt to establish a certain level of politeness. "Who do you want us to arrest? And on what charge, exactly?" He knows what charge he _wants_ to arrest someone on, but who that someone is, he's not sure yet.

Blackwell takes a deep breath. "Her name is Taylor Hebert. She barged in here after class started, assaulted several of my students, then dragged Emma Barnes from the classroom by force."

That changes everything. "Is anyone here hurt?" he asks crisply. He waits a bare second for her head-shake, then points into the classroom. "Wait here. We'll be back."

With French at his side, he starts off down the hallway, moving at a steady jog. The footprints are fainter now, but still quite visible, and occasionally accompanied by a horrid blackened thing. As they take the first flight of stairs upward, French clears his throat. "Uh, sergeant, why are we in a hurry now when we weren't before?"

"Because we didn't know the vic had a hostage," Casteli says, taking the steps two at a time. "And dollars to doughnuts this Barnes girl has something to do with the locker. Or the Herbert girl thinks she does. Either way, we've got to stop her before she does something she'll regret."

"I think she said Hebert," French says, between puffs. "Not Herbert."

Casteli wants to say _who the fuck cares?_ but he doesn't, because it would be a dick move to swear at French for picking up on a detail he missed. "Good catch," he says shortly. They come out at the top of the stairs, and he squints to pick up the trail again. It's not hard; the footprints lead directly to a girls' bathroom, not far away. Raised voices are audible from within, though he can't make out the words.

"Call this in," he says quietly. "Gonna see what I can hear." He turns down his radio so he won't be distracted as he eases closer to the bathroom door. Over his shoulder he can hear French murmuring on the radio, but he's concentrating on hearing what's going on inside.

The voices, as far as he can make out, are female and on the young side, but he can't tell more than that. _Fits with what they told us. Dollars to doughnuts that's the Hebert girl and the Barnes girl._ While there's definitely an argument going on, he can't make out more than a word here or there, and it's not enough to establish context. But it's definitely two voices and there's no screaming or noises of pain, so nobody's hurt yet. He hopes.

French moves up beside him. "They wanted to know if the Hebert girl's armed. I said not as far as we know."

Casteli nods. "Yeah. If she had been, Blackwell'd be demanding we shoot her on sight. Still, no sense in taking chances. If I draw my taser, you draw yours. If I draw my gun, you draw yours. If I shoot, you shoot. You do not do any of that unless I do it first. I'll go left, you go right. Got it?"

He senses rather than sees the return nod. "Got it, sergeant."

"Good." Taking a deep breath, he steps forward to the bathroom door. "BBPD!" he yells. "Police officers! We are coming in! Make no hostile moves!" With his left hand, he slaps the outer door open, then wrenches at the inner door. The instant it's open, he lunges through and moves to the left, clearing the way for French.

Two teenage girls, wearing just underwear, spin around from what looks like a heated discussion to stare at them.

* * *

 **A Couple of Minutes Later**

* * *

Casteli wriggles his pinky in his ear again. The black girl never made a sound when he burst in with French on his heels, but the redhead turned out to have a really effective screaming voice. This was only amplified by the tiled walls; his ears are still ringing. The redhead now has his jacket draped around her for modesty, while French has given the black girl his own jacket.

"I don't understand why we can't take this elsewhere," Principal Blackwell grumbles. It's obvious she's never been in this bathroom, and the smell of the pile of soiled clothing isn't helping.

"This is a crime scene," Casteli says for the third time. "We need to find out what happened here. Now, you're certain that neither of these girls is Taylor Hebert?" He brushes his hand over his vest to make sure his recorder is running.

"I'm certain," Blackwell informs him frigidly. "That is Emma Barnes. Her father's a lawyer. Sophia Hess is one of our track stars." She gives Casteli a hard stare. "Are they under arrest?"

Casteli shakes his head. "No. But as soon as we can walk through the timeline here, we can move things along. So, Miss Barnes. You came in here with Taylor Hebert?"

Emma turns at his prompting and nods. "Yes," she says thickly. Her nose is swollen and red, and there's a bump on her forehead; plugs of paper adorn her nostrils. "She dook her clothes off."

"That's those clothes there, right?" asks Casteli, pointing at the smelly pile. "Why do you think she did that?"

"Yes, that's themb," she confirms. "She bade be clead themb id the singk."

"She made you clean them in the sink?" he asks. When she nods, he goes on. "What happened then?"

"Sophia cambe id," she says. "Daylor beat her ub add stole her bands."

Casteli considers that. "Sophia came in," he hazards. "Taylor beat her up and stole her pants, is that right?"

Emma's just nodding when Sophia slaps her hands to her hips through the overhanging jacket. "Oh, shid!" the black girl blurts. "Bish took by phodes!" She turns to Blackwell. "I deed to call mby social worker."

"I'll do that for you," Blackwell says hurriedly, reaching into her handbag and pulling out her phone.

Casteli watches curiously as she taps a number into the phone without even consulting with Sophia. _Is it just me, or does she have that number memorised?_ Putting the phone to her ear, Blackwell turns away and begins to speak under her breath, which seems to bear out his supposition. He wonders just how often Blackwell's had to call that number over the last year. _Though it's nice to see a teacher so willing to step up for her students._

"So what happened then, Miss Barnes?" French asks.

"She mbade mbe give her mby boots add blouse add she left," Emma says simply. "But she was actig weird. Like she did'd really doe mbe. Cold add mbead." She points at her face. "She broke mby dose add Sophia's doo."

 _If I got locked into a locker with crap like that, I'd want to break someone's nose too,_ Casteli thinks. _I wouldn't even really blame her for making Emma give her the boots and blouse, if Emma was the one to shut her in there._ Not that that changes matters, of course. Assault and battery is still a crime, as is theft.

"Well, that seems to cover the situation here," he says. "Let's get you downstairs so you can wait for your parents." He really should get a description of the stolen clothing, he knows, but he just can't face trying to decipher any more of Emma's nasal mumble right now.

* * *

 **PRT Building ENE  
Deputy Director Renick's Office**

* * *

"Deputy Director Renick speaking."

" _Deputy Director, this is Kirsten Bright."_

Renick frowns at the phone. "That's nice, Ms Bright, but it doesn't tell me why you're calling me."

" _Oh, uh, I'm Shadow Stalker's PRT liaison?"_ The Bright woman sounds a little flustered. _"I've got instructions to call if there's ever anything I can't handle?"_

Shadow Stalker. Renick's frown deepens. She's not popular among her fellow Wards, but at least she doesn't cause problems at school. "Understood," he says bluntly. "But what are you calling me _about?"_

" _I just got a call from Blackwell at Winslow,"_ Bright goes on. _"Someone beat up Shadow Stalker, knocked her out and took her Wards phone."_

He sits bolt upright in his chair. "Status of Shadow Stalker?" he asks crisply.

" _Alive and conscious,"_ reports Bright. _"She's got a broken nose, though."_

Turning toward his computer, Renick puts the phone on speaker and starts typing. "Any indication as to whether this was an attack on the Wards, or on her personally?"

" _There was nothing to indicate that it was about her secret identity,"_ Bright says. Which doesn't really mean anything, as he's fully aware. _"A friend of hers was being assaulted and she went to their aid. She was apparently taken by surprise and knocked out. While she was unconscious, her phone was stolen. The thief has apparently left Winslow."_

"Call Blackwell back," Renick orders. "Get her to put Shadow Stalker on the phone and get a full report from her, broken nose or no broken nose. Call me back when you have more." The press of a button ends the call.

He clicks open a window, revealing a menu titled 'Wards Phones'. Scrolling down the list—it's arranged alphabetically, which puts Shadow Stalker down toward the bottom—he locates the one he wants and clicks on it. Immediately, a second menu pops up. From it, he selects 'Activate Tracker'. A moment later, a map unfolds on the screen. On it, a red dot pops up, crawling south from Winslow. Reaching over to his phone, Renick hits a speed-dial number.

" _Operations, Sergeant Lamont speaking."_

"This is the Deputy Director." He knows that saying so is probably unnecessary; they've probably got his number memorised. But he still does it anyway. "We've got a ten-eighty-three. The tracking beacon has been activated. I'll be sending the frequency through shortly. I'm going to need a plainclothes detail to track it down discreetly."

" _Copy that, sir. We'll get right on it."_

Renick sighs and puts the phone down, then hits the key to send the information to the Ops desk. Then he picks the phone up again. _The Director's going to want to know about this._

He's not looking forward to the conversation.


	5. Chapter 5

Part Five: Sophia Interlude

* * *

 _[A/N: this chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]_

* * *

 **Earlier**

* * *

Sophia isn't sure she knows the girl who sent her the text. _Probably one of Emma's ass-kissers. Not important._ What she does know is the body of the text: **Hey Sophia, Taylor just dragged Emma out of Gladly's World Affairs class. Looked & sounded a bit psycho.**

It's all Sophia really needs to know. She's not entirely sure how Hebert got out of the locker, or how she managed to grow enough of a spine to drag Emma out of the classroom, but details like that aren't important. If Hebert thinks she's good enough to stand up and fight back, then it's up to Sophia to explain to her where she's wrong. A good ass-kicking, she figures, will show Hebert where she really belongs. And Sophia can even report it to the PRT as a righteous beatdown, given Hebert's attack on Emma. _I fucking love a win-win situation._

By the time she gets to the top of the stairs, Hebert's crap-stained footprints are getting faint, but they show the way into the third-floor girls' bathroom. Sophia sneers; this is one of Hebert's favourite hiding places. _Tracked you down already. Couldn't even make it difficult, could you?_

She goes into the bathroom fast, shoving the doors open as hard as she can. Hebert has no way of being a danger to her, but Sophia wants to get the drop on her anyway. Even when the outcome of the fight's a foregone conclusion, it's a good habit to keep up. And if she curbstomps Hebert hard enough, maybe the sorry little queef'll think twice before getting in Sophia's way again.

As the inner door booms against the stop, Sophia strides on into the bathroom. The first person she sees is Hebert, who's stripped down to her underwear for some weird reason. _Did she drag Emma here for some kinky sex thing?_ The other odd thing is that Hebert looks like she's in the middle of a phone call. In all the time Sophia's known Emma, Hebert's never even been _seen_ with a phone, much less using one. She vaguely recalls Emma saying something about Hebert's mom, but Sophia's never bothered remembering boring details like that.

Focusing past Hebert, Sophia looks at Emma, who's just turned toward Sophia from where she's standing at one of the sinks. There's a pile of some sort of stinky shit at the redhead's feet, and she's got the water running over something that's in the sink itself. There's a red mark on her forehead, her nose is swollen, and blood-stained paper plugs her nostrils. _Hebert, you're gonna fuckin' pay for that._

Sophia takes a step forward. "Emma, you all right?"

When Emma speaks, her voice is a nasal mumble. "I thi'k by dose id broke'd. Tha'k God you're here." The look in her eye goes deeper than that: _Where were you? Why didn't you protect me?_

Anger swells in Sophia's chest at the implication that she's failed Emma, but the marks on her friend's face are silent proof of the point. _By the time I'm finished with Hebert, she's never going to pull this shit again._

Hebert seems to be paralysed with fear, or just has no idea what to do next. Either way, she's just staring into space with the phone still held up next to her ear. Gliding forward, Sophia swings her fist and plants a solid punch into the skinny girl's solar plexus, just under her breastbone. With a gratifying _whoosh_ of breath, Hebert folds over and goes down, sprawling inelegantly on the bathroom tiles. Her phone hits the floor and skitters across the ceramic, coming to rest against Emma's boot.

Sophia looks down at Hebert with her fists clenched, her victory feeling almost anticlimactic. It's not as though Hebert ever put up much of a fight before, but this time felt as though it might be more of a challenge. No such luck, of course. As Hebert's eyes focus on her, Sophia aims a kick at her ribs; time to drive the lesson home. "You've just never learned—"

Her eyes widen and she breaks off her little speech as Hebert goes from helpless victim to active participant. Lifting her legs, Hebert flips out of the way of the kick, coming to her feet far more athletically than Sophia would've given her credit for. Not that this deters Sophia in any way; Hebert might get lucky once, but that's no substitute for hard-earned skill. She comes in hard and fast, throwing a punch from the shoulder. Hebert seems to freeze up again for a split second; Sophia begins to grin tightly in anticipation of the sensation of Hebert's lips splitting under her knuckles.

The barest fraction of a second before Sophia's fist would've knocked Hebert's teeth across the room, Hebert's face just isn't there any more. Caught off guard as her fist whiffs past the other girl's head, Sophia feels her arm seized in a steely grip. As fast as she is, her reactions haven't even begun to catch up by the time the arm is twisted uncomfortably, locking her into a compliance hold. Shocked, Sophia realises that Hebert's not only stronger and faster than she seems, but that she's also totally turned the fight around in less than a second.

While Sophia's trying—and failing—to break free of the hold, Hebert turns to Emma. "How are you going with that?" The utterly casual tone of her voice does more to irritate Sophia than anything else. It's like she considers Sophia to not even be a factor any more.

Emma's reply is defensive. "Uh, id's slow. Id does'd wa'd to cub oud." If she says any more, Sophia isn't listening, because she's taking advantage of the fact that Hebert's distracted to slip into her Breaker state. It doesn't matter how lucky or good Hebert is, she can no more maintain a grip on Sophia in that state than she can put a headlock on a puff of smoke.

It's time to play hardball; if Hebert wants to poke the bear, she's gonna get mauled. Reforming, Sophia leads with a jab to the face; her follow-up will be a punch to the solar plexus. This is, of course, the least of what she's gonna be doing to Hebert, but it's a good start. Hebert takes the bait, deflecting the jab and leaving herself wide open. Sophia bares her teeth viciously as the follow-up punch … smacks loudly into the middle of Hebert's right palm, which has somehow _blurred_ into position. Hebert's hand has no give at all, and the shock of the blow travels up Sophia's arm as her fist comes to a complete halt.

Sophia's got just enough time to register that Hebert's turned the fight around _again_ , and that she's _holding_ Sophia's fist in a grip like iron. Too late, she looks up to see Hebert's forehead approaching at speed. The last thing she feels before the lights go out is a bone-deep crunch from her nose.

* * *

Cold water splashes into Sophia's face, and she splutters her way back to wakefulness. She's lying on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, with Emma standing over her in her underwear. Her nose throbs abominably, feeling about three times its normal size. "The fuck?" she asks, sitting up. Her head spins for a moment, but she pushes through it. She's taken hits to the nose before, though this is the first time she's actually had it this badly broken. "Where'd Hebert go? What happened to your clothes?"

Emma looks uncomprehendingly at her. "What?" she asks nasally.

Sophia rolls her eyes as she climbs to her feet. The throbbing in her nose eases very slightly, but it's still unpleasant as fuck. "Where. Is. Hebert? And where. Are. Your. Clothes?" That's when she looks down at herself and receives another shock. "And where's _mine?"_ she yells, because she's just noticed she's also in her underwear.

Emma gets the meaning of _that_ with no problem at all. "She took themb," she says nasally. "Took mbide too."

"And you _let_ her?" Sophia glares at her. "I thought you were supposed to be strong!"

"Why did'd you mbeat her ub?" retorts Emma. "You've always mbeed strogger thad her!" Her eyes, red-rimmed as they are, stare accusingly at Sophia.

Sophia's got an idea about that. "What if she triggered with powers?" she asks as she tears off strips of paper from the partial towel on the counter. "Attacking civilians and Wards with powers is a criminal offence." She ignores the notion that this can apply to her. If they can't catch her, they don't deserve to apply the rules to her. Rules are stupid and restrictive anyway, except for the ones that let her do what she wants.

Emma stares at her. "You thigg that's what habbed'd?" She doesn't sound disbelieving, but nor does she seem to be jumping on the idea.

Sophia winces as she shoves the wadded-up pieces of paper into her tender nostrils. "You ever seen her go that psycho before?" she asks rhetorically. Honestly, if Hebert had been that much of a badass when they first met, Sophia probably would've cut her a shitload of slack. But their respective roles are now set; Sophia's the ass-kick _er_ and Hebert's the ass-kick _ee_. Which just means that Sophia's gonna have to work harder at putting Hebert back where she belongs. Either that, or six feet underground, if Hebert won't see sense.

"So what do we do dow if she got bowers?" Emma asks after a few moments. It might be Sophia's imagination, but Emma's gaze doesn't seem to hold quite the same level of unquestioning faith in Sophia's abilities that she's used to seeing.

" _We_ don't do anything," Sophia says flatly. "Once we get out of here, I'll be contacting the PRT and giving them chapter and verse on Hebert, how she's a dangerous parahuman who attacked you and tried to kill the both of us before I drove her off. You don't have to say a damn word."

Emma frowns. "But what about our clothes?"

As much as Sophia doesn't want to admit it, she's got a point. "Okay, so she attacked us both and took our clothes. Think we should say she tried to make us do skeevy stuff? I've heard that's a fast-track to the Birdcage, right there."

A sceptical expression crosses Emma's face. "What if they exabid us? Cad't brove what did't habbed." She gives Sophia a hard look. "Add as buch as I wadd to see Taylor id trouble, I'b dot about to fake that shit."

"Yeah, you're right." Sophia considers her options. "We'll just say she was acting crazy, making threats and shit. We don't know why she picked on you. For all we know, it was all about how you used to be her best friend."

"Add our clothes," Emma points out. "She wadd wearig your padts."

Sophia shakes her head. "I still can't believe you let her take my _pants."_

"I still cad'd believe she bead you ub," Emma retorts. "It was like she didd't have to eved try."

"Don't go there," Sophia says warningly. "I figure she's got a Brute rating, as well as Mover and probably Thinker. I couldn't use my powers directly, so _yeah,_ she beat me. But next time I see her, I'm gonna take her down as hard as I need to."

Emma nods. "Souds good. So how are we gettig out of here? I dod't thidk adyode dows we're here."

"Well, I'm sure as shit not walking out that door like this," Sophia says bluntly. "If anyone gets even one photo of us, it'll be all over the fuckin' school in minutes." And even with Emma's standing among the 'in' crowd, such a photo would make them a laughingstock at best and raise salacious rumours at worst. _The higher you are, the harder you fall._

"Doe, doe, I cad see that," Emma says hurriedly. "Cad't you phase through the floor or sobethig?" She looks expectantly at Sophia, who shakes her head.

"Fuck, no," Sophia says flatly. "For one thing, if I run into an electricity cable, it hurts like all fuck, and if I can't get out of the wall in time, that might just kill me. For another, that's a fuckin' boys' bathroom just under us. I am _not_ fuckin' outing myself _and_ giving whoever's in there shooting up or smoking up a free show, all at the same time." While it isn't a certainty that there'll be someone in there, the chances are about fifty-fifty of this being the case, and Sophia doesn't like those odds in the slightest.

Emma seems to shrink in on herself a little. "So what do we do?" she asks, wrapping her arms around herself. Sophia restrains herself from following suit, even though it is a bit chilly in the bathroom. She tells herself that it's all the tiling that's making it feel cold.

"There's only one thing for it," Sophia says. She points at the pile of reeking clothing on the floor, which by now she's identified as Hebert's cast-offs. Even worse than them are the jeans, currently crammed into one of the sinks; they were what Emma'd been trying to clean when Sophia came in. The cleaning effort hasn't been too successful, and on top of everything else the jeans are now also soaking wet. On the floor, the sneakers are just as filthy as the jeans were, while other items of clothing (while not nearly as bad) are still soiled to one degree or another. "You're going to have to put those on and go for help."

Up until now, Emma's been following Sophia's lead for the most part. But at this suggestion, she shakes her head violently. "Doe! Fugg, doe! I'b dot puttig that shit odd." The look on her face suggests that her disgust might stem in equal parts from the smell and the utter lack of fashion inherent in Hebert's ex-wardrobe. _"You_ put it odd."

"Not fucking likely," Sophia retorts. "That shit stinks bad enough when we're back here. There's no fuckin' way I'm getting any closer. _You_ put it on."

"You're subbosed to be the suberhero," protests Emma. Sophia is mildly surprised; the redhead is pushing back harder on the issue than she would've expected. "Addyway, I cad't fit iddo mbost of her clothes. You're skiddier thad be."

Sophia steps forward and raises her voice. "There's _no fucking way_ I'm putting on _any_ of that shit. You're the one who got yourself dragged up here by Hebert."

"I didd't see you doig addy better agaidst her," Emma shoots back, her own voice also rising. "Addyway, you're the wud who shoved her iddo the logger."

"Oh, don't even fuckin' _go_ there," Sophia snaps. "All you had to do was distract her just _once_ when I was fighting her and we would've _had_ her. But you couldn't even do that."

"Whed, eggzacty?" demands Emma sarcastically. "Whed she had you id ad arb lock, or whed she head-butted you? She fuggig _owd'd_ you."

Temper rising, Sophia is opening her mouth to shout something when another shout interrupts her. "BBPD!" It's a masculine voice, coming from outside the bathrooms. "Police officers! We are coming in! Make no hostile moves!" This is followed by the distinctive sound of the outer door being pushed open, then the inner one also flies open. A heavy-set male cop, made even bulkier by the jacket he's wearing, bursts into the bathrooms and moves to the right. Directly behind him, a skinnier cop, this one black, comes in and moves to Sophia's left.

Despite the fact that she's technically covered by her underwear, Emma automatically shields herself with her arms, and lets out a piercing scream. Sophia has to admit, this is something she's really, really good at.

* * *

 **Later, in Principal Blackwell's Office**

* * *

Just as they enter the outer office door, Principal Blackwell's phone rings. Pulling it out, she swipes the answer icon and holds it to her ear. "Winslow High School, Principal Blackwell speaking," she says.

Sophia tunes her out in favour of listening in on the two police officers. The older one, in his forties, has greying hair at his temples and a stolid, unshakeable air about him. His jacket hangs off of Emma like a circus tent, while the younger cop's jacket might actually fit Sophia in a couple of years.

"Take that to the car," the older one says, indicating the oversized evidence bag that the younger one is holding, containing Hebert's wet soiled clothing. "Bring back tape and cones. We need to partition that locker off until crime scene techs can get to it."

Sophia isn't so sure she likes that idea. If the cops decide to really investigate the locker, she's not sure exactly what they'll find, but it might not be good for her. Best, she decides, if the PRT takes over as soon as possible. Being aware of her secret identity, they'll steer any investigation away from her. Because of _course_ as a Ward she won't be a suspect in the matter.

"Miss Hess?" She looks around at Blackwell's voice. "Your social worker needs to speak with you." The woman holds her phone out to her.

"Okay." She takes the phone. "Can I—?" She gestures toward the inner office. After all, it wouldn't do to have the cops hear what she's got to say to the Bright twit.

Blackwell nods and ushers her through; the door closes behind her. On the other side of it, she can hear the principal explaining that she needs to take a 'private phone call'. Sophia grins and settles down into Backwell's desk chair as she holds the phone to her ear. "I'm here."

" _This is Kirsten Bright. Can you speak freely?"_

Sophia glances around, just to make sure she's alone. "Sure. What's up?"

" _Identify yourself by codename and security password, please."_ It seems that Bright is actually taking security procedures seriously, for once.

"Shadow Stalker. One two one three Sierra Hotel. Happy?" She tries not to sound too sarcastic, but she can't help rolling her eyes.

" _Perfectly. Deputy Director Renick has directed me to get a verbal report from you regarding the incident involving your phone being stolen. Just so you know, I'll be recording this. Do you understand?"_ The so-called 'social worker' definitely seems to be crossing the "t's" and dotting the "i's" today. It doesn't take Sophia long to figure out why. _They're gonna be going through everything that happens today with a fine-tooth comb. She doesn't want to fuck up and lose her job. The fucking twit._ It occurs to Sophia that she doesn't want Bright to lose her job either; the next babysitter they stick her with might actually be inclined to _do_ their damn job.

"Sure, I understand. Let me know when to start." Leaning back in the chair, she puts her bare feet up on Blackwell's desk, crossing one over the other. There's no sense in not being comfortable, after all.

Kirsten Bright clears her throat. _"Commencing verbal report by Shadow Stalker regarding phone-loss incident at Winslow High on January third, two thousand eleven. Shadow Stalker, you may begin."_

Sophia takes a deep breath. "There's this creepy weird loner in Winslow called Taylor Hebert. When she dragged my friend Emma Barnes out of class—"

" _Uh, one second,"_ interjects the Bright twit. _"How did you know she'd done this? Are you in the same class with her? Did you see this?"_

Trying not to sound aggravated, Sophia sighs. "No. Someone sent me a text message. One of her other friends, I don't remember who. _Any_ way, when I heard, I got worried so I went looking. I—"

" _Were you in costume at the time?"_ interrupts the twit. _"Has your secret identity been compromised?"_

"No and no," Sophia says, trying not to snap at the woman. No sense in getting her pissed, after all. "I just made an excuse and left class. No big." She takes a breath, then continues on. "I know Winslow pretty good, so it didn't take me long to find them. Emma and Taylor, I mean. I—"

" _Uh, I've been to Winslow too. It's not a small place. How exactly did you find them quickly?"_

Knowing Bright can't see her, Sophia rolls her eyes. She didn't want to bring up this detail, but it seems the twit's actually using her brain for once. "Hebert must've walked in something. Left a pretty clear trail. Led me straight to the third-floor girls' bathrooms. I get there, she's already busted Emma's nose and she's making Emma change clothes with her or something."

" _Why?"_ asks Bright. _"The clothes, I mean."_

"I dunno," Sophia retorts. "Maybe because her own clothes are so fuckin' grungy? She's a weirdo loner, who knows why they do shit? Anyway, I tell her to back the fuck off from Emma. But she attacks me. Now normally, I should've been able to take her down, no problem. I'm pretty fuckin' good, and Hebert doesn't do sports, never fights—I mean, doesn't get into fights. Never even seen her throw a punch. Just a big wimp, really. But this time around she cleaned my fuckin' _clock._ She's got moves I've never seen." She lets the aggravation at being beaten so thoroughly creep into her tone. "She's gotta be a fuckin' cape."

From the change in tone, Bright is suddenly a lot more attentive. _"You're certain about this? What proof do you have?"_

"Okay." Sophia tries to inject patience into her tone. "She's basically a bundle of twigs in a hoodie, yeah? I went to punch her and she caught my fist out of nowhere, and _held_ it. When I was fighting her, or trying to, she moved faster than Armsmaster. Maybe as fast as Velocity. Not the whole body, but her arms and head. Like she knew what I was gonna be doing and got there first, every time."

" _That's … very concerning,"_ concedes Bright. _"So what happened then?"_

"Well, after she head-butted me and knocked me out," Sophia grinds out, "the bitch stole my clothes and my phones, and took Emma's too. I dunno where she got to. The cops came in shortly after that, then brought in the principal. You know the rest."

" _All right,"_ says the Bright twit. _"What have you told the police?"_

Again, Sophia rolls her eyes. _What do you take me for?_ "Everything that happened, except for the bits about me being a Ward. And about her being a cape. Figured you'd want to keep that on the down-low for the moment."

" _That's exactly what we want, yes."_ Bright pauses for a moment. _"So what else can you tell me about the Hebert girl?"_

Sophia bares her teeth. This is the moment she's been waiting for. "Okay, she's always been creepy, but now she's got powers she's even creepier. Take it from me, she's hella dangerous to fight. Pretty sure she's got Brute and Mover and combat Thinker ratings, and she's sure as fuck no hero. Emma said she was acting all crazy, saying we'd all be sorry or some shit." She pauses for a moment. "Need anything more?"

" _No, that sounds perfect,"_ the Bright woman tells her. _"I'll pass your report on to Deputy Director Renick as soon as possible."_

"Excellent," says Sophia, and hangs up the call. Stretching in the chair, she allows herself a tight little smile of self-congratulation. _Fuck you, Hebert. Fuck you with a barge pole._

 _ **I. Fucking. Win.**_


	6. Chapter 6

**Reality Intrudes**

* * *

Part Six: Wake-Up Call

* * *

 _[A/N: this chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]_

* * *

 **Morrigan**

* * *

Leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, I breathe deeply. Yeah, I know it's not really air that I'm breathing. I don't give a fuck. Breathing deeply still helps when it comes to dealing with this sort of shit. Not even the _Mainframe_ killed that many people so casually; looking into the face of a thing that's got a seven-digit body count is frankly terrifying. Even if it _is_ just a picture of something inside a simulation. _I'm_ inside the goddamn simulation with it.

Slowly, I raise my head and look at the pictures of Behemoth again. They aren't any less frightening, but I'm gradually getting used to the idea that there's something in here that I don't stand a snowball's chance in _fuck_ of taking out on my own. No amount of Operatives could. So we don't even try to kill this thing; we just leave it in here when we evacuate everyone the _fuck_ out of this pocket of the Matrix. Then we shut the fucking thing down and _erase_ it.

As I click out of the entry on Behemoth and hover the cursor over Leviathan's name, I'm wondering if I really want to do this. Also, exactly what _is_ the purpose to leave three rampaging … _viruses,_ for want of a better term, active in the system alongside living people? Seriously, does this Zion program _want_ people to die en masse? To me, that seems to go directly against the primary ethos of the Matrix as a whole. _It's insane. It fucking has to be. There's no other viable explanation._ With that in mind, I open the entry for Leviathan.

The appearance of the big lizard-like creature is made subtly worse by the fact that it _has no fucking face_. Or muzzle, or whatever it is that lizards have. Then I take in its accomplishments.

Well, _fuck_. I'd thought I was inured to the havoc that the Endbringers could cause. It turns out I'm wrong; so sue me. It sank Kyushu. And Newfoundland. That's … I've really got no words for that. Apart from _what the holy crapping Christ have I stuck my neck in this time?_

Feeling just a little light-headed, I look at the list of _other_ places that Leviathan has inundated and decimated. The very _long_ list. After a moment, I work out that the vast majority are coastal cities. Opening another window, I look up information for Brockton Bay; specifically, its location.

 _Yeah, thought so. I'm in a coastal city. Fuck my_ _ **life**_ _._ By now, I'm not even remotely surprised.

At some point, I must've put the phone on the table beside me. Now it rings softly, buzzing against the hard surface. Picking it up, I flip it open. "Yeah?"

" _Your vitals just jumped all over the place for a bit. You're not wimping out on us are you, Mopey?"_

Fucking _Loki._ The last of the sick sensation in my stomach makes way for an entirely reasonable and rational desire to punch his teeth down his throat. I wonder momentarily if the Captain would mind if I jacked out for a moment so I could do just that. "Fuck you, ass-biscuit. I'm doing better here than you ever would. Figure you'd be puking your guts out if you were reading half the shit I was."

His tone is irritatingly condescending. _"I highly doubt that, Moggy. After all, whatever you're looking at in there is made-up information for a made-up simulation. None of it's real. No need to piss yourself."_

"I did _not_ fuckin' piss myself!" In my own head, I admit that this is because I'm capable of some pretty effective self-control. But the fact remains that I _didn't._ I hang up, making a mental note to screw Loki over in an appropriate manner once I jack out of here.

Behemoth was a shock. Leviathan isn't much better. But when I click on the Simurgh, I get a whole new level of 'what the fuck'? Even if there aren't any Agents here, they don't need them. This giant creepy winged fucker is a fucking _telepath._ And a telekinetic. And she can apparently turn people into long-term serial killers and worse.

Again, I'm left wondering exactly what the purpose is to have these things killing hundreds of thousands of people every few months. And then I wonder if Zion was originally so dedicated to his little pocket project that he wiped the information that he's _in_ the Matrix from his own awareness. It'd explain a shitload, given that his standard operating procedure seems to be "kill the people I need with fucking great monsters". I mean, what the living _fuck?_

If there's anything good to be said about this, it's that the Endbringers seem to be the worst singular threat facing the population. Everything else seems to be merely human beings with stupidly ridiculous cheat codes integrated into their avatars. The Slaughterhouse Nine, just for instance, comes across as a bunch of murderhobos led by a smarmy-looking asshole whose looks would be greatly improved by a bullet-hole roughly around the left eyebrow. Why nobody's implemented this improvement in the twenty-something years they've been active is something else I can't figure out. The rest of the crew could do with something similar too. I stall on the page dedicated to the first twelve year old serial killer I've ever heard of. The images on her wiki page have a caution sign you've got to click past, and it still makes me glad that Taylor's thrown up basically everything in her stomach. I never knew it was possible to _do_ that to a human body. Even in a simulation.

I'd thought I knew viciousness. This pocket of the Matrix is fucking war-crimes central. Everyone in here, if I'm reading the situation even half right, is walking wounded. Accordingly, I stop reading what I'm clicking on. Let 'em strip it out, and upload a summary into my head.

I click through a few more information pages, but my heart's not in it any more. Plus, I'm hungry. Slipping the phone into my pocket, I stand up. Nobody's looking at me oddly, which is good. I head downstairs, still wary of any sort of ambush, but nobody seems to have me in their crosshairs as yet. I don't assume I'm in the clear, but I let myself relax very slightly. Now, if only I can find someplace to get a snack or two.

There's office buildings all around me, so I'm guessing there's also coffee shops around here somewhere. With this in mind, I walk a couple of blocks, keeping my eyes open, and pretty soon I locate what I'm looking for. Taylor Hebert's coin purse, when I investigate more closely, has a pocket for what looks like house keys, and another for notes. A five goes toward a take-away coffee and a croissant, with damn-all change left over. I grimace, make a mental apology toward her for hijacking her body and spending her money, and leave the shop with my drink and pastry.

The croissant is nice and hot, but the coffee leaves a bit to be desired. Still, it's hot and liquid, so I drink it. I've had worse. And it's kind of pleasant to just walk along, the weak January sunlight cutting down the effect of a chill breeze winding down the street.

Of course, I'm still on the clock, and I figure I've gotten enough data from official sources for the moment; it's time to see what the underbelly looks like. My options to do this are relatively limited. I could either impersonate a cop, a fellow criminal or a victim. Being a cop is out, as it would take too much time to acquire a legitimate-looking badge and uniform (besides, I've kicked the shit out of a fuckload of cops. It would be too fucking weird). Likewise, I simply don't have the underworld contacts for this pocket of the Matrix. However, being a victim requires minimal prep. Any idiot can manage it. Even Loki.

So I set out to get mugged. Basically, this means that I spend the next twenty minutes keeping an eye out for suspicious types that happen to be lurking in alleyways, and make myself a nice fat (figuratively speaking, because Taylor's a _rake_ ) target for them. So when I get dragged into the alley, I hold back and put up a token struggle, as if I've got no chance against two strong men.

Once we're in the alley proper, they push me face-first against a dumpster and pull my hands behind my back. One guy gets in close and holds his hand over my mouth while pressing a blade of some sort against my cheek. The guy who's holding my hands behind my back starts patting my pockets down at the same time, copping a feel as he does so. I'm really not sure what pisses me off more. They're late teens or early twenties, and they haven't bathed in a while. Both of them have shaven heads, which is kind of weird. The guy who can't decide whether to grab my ass or my phone is mouthing the standard threats I assume muggers use in this situation. I'm not even listening, as my focus is on making sure we're alone and unobserved.

Once I'm certain this is the case, I stop playing the helpless victim. Yanking my hands free of the asshole's grip, I grab the hand that's got the knife on me and wrench it backward until bone snaps. His pained scream is cut off when I bring my other elbow around into his side. I'm pretty sure I don't break any of his ribs, but I certainly bend a few.

He tries to reel backward, but I've still got his wrist. Turning, I kick him under the kneecap with more force than necessary; not entirely certain that I haven't ruined the whole knee joint. With a rather more high-pitched scream, he lurches forward. The scream is cut off as my rising knee meets his descending face, and he crumples limply to the ground.

His buddy is quicker on the uptake, though I can't say much for his self-preservation instincts. Pulling out a Saturday Night Special, he backs way the fuck off while waving it in my general direction. "F-fuck off!" he yells. "Kill you, you fucking cape bitch!"

Well, I'd been _thinking_ about opening a dialogue right about then, but the gun fucks any diplomatic intentions in the ass, without lube. The word 'cape' rings a bell, but I haven't got time to think about it as I backflip on to the dumpster. Reacting way too late, the guy fires off a wild shot, puncturing the dumpster about two feet to the side of where I'd been. Without pausing, I kick off from the dumpster and run three steps diagonally up the wall before diving outward into a forward somersault. The pistol goes off for a second time; this time, the bullet takes a chunk out of the brick wall.

My boot heels slam into his collarbones with my full weight (or rather, _Taylor's_ full weight) behind the impact. It's still hard enough to snap them both like bread-sticks; he screams, rather more manfully than his buddy, and goes down like a sack of shit. By the time he hits the ground, I have the gun. I may have accidentally-on-purpose bounced his head off the ground extra hard, but at least he's still breathing.

I dust myself off, restraining the impulse to stomp on his crotch a few times— _cop a feel off a teenage girl, will you—_ and go through their pockets. The knife and gun I'm claiming as spoils of war, because I need them and these two fucktards are barely competent to walk and chew gum, let alone be trusted with weapons. I make a mental note to upgrade the knife as soon as possible, given that it's a substandard piece of shit. If anything, the pistol is worse. For one thing, it hasn't been cleaned in forever; for another, the action is loose. Third, the asshole only left two bullets in it. I'm honestly surprised it went off at all. They've also got some money, which I shove into Taylor's coin purse. Each of them has a phone, which I add to my growing collection.

Of course, beating crap out of them is only half the plan for getting an insight into the criminal underside of Brockton Bay. The other half requires them to give me information. Unfortunately, I did handle them kind of roughly; even if I woke them up, they're unlikely to willingly answer any questions I've got for them. And Mr Grabby probably has a concussion anyway, which reduces my options.

With a sigh, I pick up Mr Knifey and sling him over my shoulder. Mr Grabby should wake up sometime soon and stagger to a hospital; after all, I made sure to leave his legs in working order. I make the leap on to the dumpster without much trouble, but it takes a bit more effort to jump up and catch the fire escape with my free hand. As the rusty metal creaks and groans under the sudden strain, I swing my legs over the rail and catch my balance. Only then do I realise that what I'm doing isn't as hard as it should be. Sure, this _is_ the Matrix, but there's usually a bit more push-back from the subroutines designed to maintain the illusion of little things like physics and gravity.

Jogging up the stairs makes Mr Knifey flop around in a way that has to be uncomfortable, or would be if he was conscious. The fire escape doesn't like it either, reiterating the creaking and groaning while adding a few clanks to its repertoire. I'm not really worried about either one as I pull my phone out of my pocket, flip it open, and press the button.

" _Operator."_ He sounds as smarmy as ever.

I get to the top of the fire escape and start across the rooftop, gravel crunching under the soles of Emma's boots. My boots, now. "Need you to check something out for me. Think you can do that, or is the big bad Matrix too scary for you?"

" _Fuck you, Moggy."_ But the insult is only casual. _"What the fuck do you want?"_

"The code." I break off talking for a moment as I accelerate to a run, free arm pumping smoothly along with my legs, and leap the twenty-foot gap to the next building. As I land, Mr Knifey groans at the impact. "Check the local code. Bet you a genuine imitation beefburger that the error-checking's out the fuckin' window."

" _Yeah, yeah, hold your fuckin' horses."_ He stops talking and I hear the sound of computer keys rattling. _"Holy fuck. Are you seeing this, Captain?"_

I hang the phone up as I hurdle another gap. Mr Knifey's definitely starting to regain consciousness now, but that's okay. I've found a good spot for what I want to do. A sheer drop to the alley below, no visible witnesses, and a solid parapet to brace from. Thematically, I should really be waiting till nightfall to do this sort of thing, but I'm kind of rushed at the moment.

When Mr Knifey opens his eyes, he's dangling face-first over the gap between one building and the next. I've got one foot braced against the parapet, the back of his collar in my right hand, and his unbroken wrist jammed firmly up between his shoulderblades with my left hand.

I'm watching him carefully in case he tries to play possum, but he signals his wakefulness by screaming and convulsing in my grip. Despite the fact that Taylor's Matrix avatar hasn't got anywhere near the muscle mass of my real-world body, and that Mr Knifey would make four of her, I hold him easily.

His right arm flails uselessly, the wrist still at an odd angle since I broke it. He tries to scrabble with his legs, but there's not much leverage to be had, and I wrench his arm a little farther up between his shoulderblades. "When you're ready to talk, I'm ready to listen," I say, injecting all the menace I'm able to muster into my voice. Taylor Hebert's not exactly physically imposing, so I need every advantage available to me.

"Fuck, fuck, don't kill me, don't kill me!" he blurts. "What do you wanna know? I'll tell you everything!" He starts babbling a litany of minor robberies and muggings that very quickly becomes repetitive.

Well, fuck. Either this guy's a total wimp or I'm scarier than I thought I was. Though the fact that I'm casually dangling him over the alley is probably adding to my intimidation factor. "Shut the fuck up and _listen,"_ I order him harshly, twisting his collar by the grip I've got on it. As the pressure increases, he chokes, fighting for breath. "Who runs the crime around here?"

"Kaiser," he blurts, which doesn't make me any more informed. "He runs the Empire Eighty-Eight."

I frown slightly. When gang bosses take on weird nicknames, you know things are getting hinky. "So who's Kaiser when he's at home? Surely nobody just calls him that." I ratchet his wrist upward half an inch or so, just to get his attention.

"E-everyone does!" he nearly screams. "He's _Kaiser._ Nobody sees him without the armour. If anyone got a look at his real face, he'd probably impale 'em right there!"

Wait one fuckin' second. Back that shit up. "How, exactly, is he gonna 'impale' them?" I ask carefully, a dark suspicion brewing in my gut.

Over the next half hour or so, I learn that things in Brockton Bay are even more ridiculously problematic than I'd thought before. Sure, there's adult superheroes along with the junior varsity (including one Sophia Hess, who doesn't qualify for 'superhero' under any definition _I've_ ever heard of) but there's also supervillains running gangs. Note 'gangs'. Plural. My involuntary informant lets slip that there's at least _four_ lots of super-powered assholes running criminal syndicates in and around Brockton Bay. Kaiser's Empire Eighty-Eight (a bunch of racist cocksuckers, as the shaved head and the code numbers should've warned me) isn't the only one, just the biggest. If Mr Knifey isn't talking his boss up, Kaiser's got something like a dozen powered criminals working for him. Fuck my _life._

The next biggest employer is someone going by the unlikely name of Faultline, who runs a crew of weirdo freaks (his description, not mine) who only do out-of-town jobs. As if this is a valid excuse for the authorities not to come down on her. But apparently it works. _This fuckin' place._

Knifey is in the process of a highly derogatory description of someone called Lung when I interrupt him. "Hey," I say, twisting his wrist slightly. "Quick question. Where's your nearest stash house?"

"What?" He tries to twist his head around to look at me; I move my head to avoid his gaze. While they might not recall the face of Victim Number Fifteen or whatever, I'm pretty sure that right now anything he sees of me will be burned into his memory. "You're fuckin' nuts."

"What's it to you if I am?" I try to sound bored. "Best case for you is if I get shot to shit. What do you care about my well-being?"

It takes a little more coaxing after that, along with a certain amount of applied pain, but he finally gives up the address. Along with a verbal description of the layout, and an estimate of how many people are likely to be there. Mentally, I double the number. Then I double it again, just in case.

"What're you gonna do to me?" Knifey sounds justifiably nervous. "Fuck, don't kill me."

I'm tempted to just let go, but I did kinda bait them in the first place, and it's not like he was ever a real danger to me. Pulling him back from the brink, I let go his arm, then smack him in the back of the head hard enough to put him out.

As I head for the fire escape, I'm already planning my next move. There's a couple things that I need, and then?

Then I'm going _shopping._


End file.
